One Fine Day You're Gonna Die (8 page)

“More gas. But nice and easy. She's talking.”

Give Daddy a paper clip, a screwdriver, duct tape and a hose and he'd get anything with wheels moving. From my jeans pocket, I pulled a penknife with a bone handle. Then I exposed the points and scraped.

“Try her now.” Listening, I held up a hand, and she read me loud and clear. The engine stopped. I scraped again. “She's hurting but back in business.”

The Mustang had enough life to get us to a town. The woman revved the motor.

“You're one damn miracle worker. I'd like to shake your hand, kind sir.”

I took out my last handkerchief and cleaned my fingers. “Glad to help.”

“I'm Gladys Ryan.” She had a firm grip, like she knew what she was doing. It's a western thing. I'm all for being equal. Some women I've seen could ride and rope circles around me. Credit where credit's due, and all that. She wore a real strange ring on her third finger, left hand. Like a cigar band, only colored metal.

“Rick Cooper.”

“Gary Cooper. Tall, dark and handsome.”

“No relation, ma'am.” Mama used to like that dude. Another good sign.

“Looks like we both caught a break.

Hop in. You drive,” she said.

I tossed my duffel into the trunk beside her set of fancy luggage marked
YSL
. Maybe it was secondhand. Then I eased into the seat and took the leather-wrapped wheel. Daddy always said to keep your hands at ten and two. Looking at the gearshift, I did a double take.

“What the hell's that?”

She gave a little pound to the dash as she laughed. “That's the future, if you get old enough. A steel hip joint.”

“I've seen custom, but this beats all.” I found first and juiced the gas. I went through all five gears, double-clutching at the top to show off.

Some fierce stink filled the car. “Oh, Christ. Bucky's awake.”

“Huh?” I hadn't seen a kid. She was a bit old for that.

“It's my golden retriever in the backseat. You'd never know he was there unless he wakes up for a meal. Then he farts up a storm.”

Turns out Bucky was fifteen, old for the breed and on the deaf side. She and her husband had him from a pup. Retrievers weren't my thing. Didn't see the point of them. German shepherds, maybe. Good guard dogs earned their keep.

Her tiny hand reached out to adjust the air conditioner. Blue veins. Not so young then. Maybe a rough fifty or a prime sixty. That could work in my favor.

“The gear-shift was my late husband George's. He had a hip replacement and a wicked sense of humor.”

“Uh-huh.” That explained the weird ring. Must've been a cheap bastard.

“I do admire the car. She's choice.” Fifty thousand miles on the odometer. Babied big-time for twenty years. “No rust neither. Saw your license. Don't you have salt on the road up there?”

“Kept it covered up inside all winter. Too light in the rear for traction. We used it only for special trips. George had a sister in San Diego. We went down once a year.” Her voice took on a sad tone. “I'm… coming back from her funeral.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

She shrugged and pooched out her lower lip. “She was eighty. When you gotta go…”

“It's not bad to go in California.”

“You got that right. How'd you know that trick with the engine?” She reached into the backseat.

“My daddy purely loved Mustangs. The '65 classic, and then the '70 like this one: 351 Cleveland V-8 engine. Same color too. Christmas cars, he called 'em. Red, green, gold stripes.” I heard her rummaging around. A metallic clinking. My lips were chapped and I licked them. “Sure would be funny if it was the same one,” I said.

“In the movies maybe. George bought this new. Five thousand bucks.” She popped the cap off a can of Colt 45 and passed it over.

“That'll hit the spot. Lots of snow up north?” I finished the brew in a couple of gulps.

“We don't all live in igloos like Yanks think. But we plow and shovel plenty of the white stuff.” Next came a paper cup and a bottle of Smirnoff. She poured herself a generous slug and toasted me.

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